


All Else Fades

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam must make a difficult decision after Shelob fells Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Else Fades

Sam trudged foot by foot, over treacherous rocks, always toward the hulking mountain. He only lifted his eyes when necessary, when he could no longer stand to watch his battered feet stumble over jagged cracks in the stony ground. He had long ago given up taking in full breaths, which only filled his lungs with foul air and sent him reeling into coughing fits. The soles of his feet no longer felt the blisters from the burning rocks. It had been far too long since Sam had felt a bit of earth between his toes. And since his life had fallen into ruin, he had not much cared if he ever did again. He kept marching on because that was all there was to do. Out of everything he had imagined about how the quest would end, he had never thought he would be alone, making this part of the journey with the Ring and without Frodo.

I came to protect him and failed. There was nothing left to do. Gandalf should be here, or at lease someone much wiser and stronger, but Gandalf’s gone, too, and Aragorn and the others are doing what they need to be doing now. Nothing left to it but to go on.

Try as he might, he could not block out his last vision of Frodo, as he had last seen him, elvish fair, sleeping peacefully at last. He had done the impossible and left him there, and somehow his sturdy legs had carried him into a world where Frodo was truly and utterly gone from him. He had climbed the tower with eyes blurred with tears, and then he had turned and had seen that last glimmer of Frodo from the summit.

Now he shielded his eyes against the burning sun, only there was no sun because dark billowing smoke had filled the sky, blocking light and air. The fierce glare came from the wheel of fire, which had broken through the veil and gazed on him. How his Frodo had endured such torment, all this time, with barely a complaint, Sam did not know.

The chants and whispers never stopped. They filled his ears like poisoned darts, making him feverish and mad.

He understood now the haunted glaze that had filled Frodo’s eyes during all those sleepless nights. The torment of the Ring had never let Frodo sleep, just as it didn’t let Sam rest now. The whispering never ceased, even when his body gave out and he slipped into what had once been pleasant dreams about home. Dreams about Rosie Cotton soon fell into unpleasant nightmare when her eyes narrowed and she bent her head forward in wicked conspiracy. She whispered guttural curses, pleas, and empty promises. His mama pulled a pie from the oven, but it was no apple pie, sizzling with cinnamon and love. Instead it was filled with black hissing snakes and it burned his eyes, probing for the Ring around his neck. Sam cried out and held his head, always glad to open his eyes and find that the evil was harnessed within Mordor – for now.

Sam’s jaw ached from clenching it, as if doing so would stave away the worst torment of all -- that each step led him farther and farther away from Frodo’s lifeless body. He remembered Frodo in Bag End, his cheeks rosy with excitement, as he spoke about his latest walking holiday. He remembered Frodo’s patience in helping him sound out his letters when he’d been a lad. But Sam had to block such images. If he opened his heart just now, it would bring him to his knees. When he had fulfilled his last promise to Frodo, only then could he put down his weary head and weep. Only then would his jaw unclench and release all the agony that knotted in his throat like a pile of hot stones. Frodo was gone forever, nothing but a shadow in heart and memory. Mercifully he had not suffered -- Shelob had come at him from the back and he had fallen with little pain. And now, at least he slept in peace, free of his burden without having ever had to tread on this Nameless Land.

Sam did hold one hope close to his chest, no brighter than the tiniest of flame from perhaps a birthday candle, that Frodo’s body would be left unmolested. He hoped the Lady had somehow heard his plea, and that hope kept him going, step by step. He would return to that foul pass. Never mind that he had only enough water for perhaps another day, and certainly not enough for a there-and-back-again journey. Still, if there was breath left in his body and strength in his feet, he would return to his Frodo, take him in his arms, and never let go again.

On and on, through leagues of barren stone, breathing in foul air, he went on because there was no other choice. I made a promise, Sam thought over and over with every step. It became a cadence in his brain, a chant to go along with each weary step. Sometimes he stopped, and he thought he could hear a faint echo of footsteps, as if something or someone was following not close behind. Sam clutched the Ring close and set his jaw in grim determination.

Stinker.

His fingers curled around the Ring with rage.

Sam remembered that day long ago as he, Frodo, and Gollum had stepped along that cool stream in Ithilien, when he had lost his temper with Stinker (oh, what he wouldn’t give now for a moment alone with that wretched creature). Watching Frodo’s strength wane had been unbearable. He did not eat, sleep, or take enough water. His cheeks had lost color and his eyes were dull. Sam had taken out his frustration on Gollum, by hurling insult after insult. He hadn’t been able to help it. Seeing such vile wretchedness, seeing that Gollum didn’t even try to curb it, had sent waves of rage and sharp-edged fear through Sam. But now, remembering the haunted look in Frodo’s eyes, he only wished he could take it all back.

Frodo’s reproach had cut him deeply. “You don’t know what the Ring’s done to him, what it’s doing to him now.”

Only now, after having borne the Ring for these few days, did Sam understand -- what Frodo had endured, what he must have known amidst the maddening whispers and fire and insatiable need.

“I have to believe he can come back.”

“You can’t save him.” Sam wanted to embrace Frodo and keep him with him for all time, as if in his strong arms he could keep the Ring from twisting his master into a wretched shadow. He wanted to hurry the quest along so that the Ring could have no more of Frodo’s heart.

If Gollum had lost the Ring years and years before, and still his mind burned from his need for it, then what would become of Frodo, even after it was destroyed? Sam choked at the thought. The Ring’s destruction was supposed to bring the end of it all, but would it?

Frodo’s eyes might still turn toward the mountain, looking at it with hunger, as if there might be a way to undo the destruction. He would roam the world, cowering against the sun and moon, wandering, always searching for something to fill that gaping emptiness. Perchance one day a dagger would fall into his hands and perhaps Frodo might find his way out of this world rather than to face another cruel sun without his Precious.

Watching Frodo stamp away in anger after Gollum, Sam had to believe that when it was all over, Frodo would come back. He had to believe that at the end of all things, when the Ring was swallowed by the great fire, that it would not swallow Frodo along with it, leaving behind a wretched shell filled with lust and rage, thoroughly defeated.

 

Of course, none of it had mattered because Sam had been right about Stinker and Frodo had been wrong and his blind trust had killed him. Now, whether Stinker followed him or not, Sam had a promise to follow through on, even if it meant breaking that other promise never to leave him. He could not bear to think of that now, and he let it fall into black rocks and fire and whispers.

Of all the torments the Dark Lord could devise, there was none greater than having had to leave his Frodo behind on that pass, naked to whatever foul creature might come along. Sam had wounded Shelob, but she was not dead, and who was to say she wouldn’t limp out to have another feeding later. Sam closed his eyes, refusing to believe that he would not still be there on the pass, untouched, pale and at peace under a new and brighter moon.

This wish is yours to have.

Sam clutched the Ring, as if by doing so he could halt the false whispers. He knew that sooner or later, he would no longer be strong enough to tell that they were false.

He staggered up the mountain, stumbling when the earth shook, spewing small rocks and boulders in his direction. But he continued on because now he had come this far and he had to see it through.

Without the quest, without the necessity of it, he would have long ago fallen to his knees and quit. But he would go on -- or die trying. As the hours passed, dying became more attractive, and he had to force one foot before the other.

He went on this, not by thinking about Mr. Frodo, but by picturing home. He thought about happy, healthy hobbits outside without a care. Children laughed and chased each other around, screeching with carefree fun. A little girl with golden curls leaped up and tried to capture butterflies in her fat little hands. Fireflies blinked among the apple orchards, although their lights were dull compared to the clear silver stars. Oh, how Sam missed stars! He looked up into a black sky filled with rolling black clouds. Stars, pure and silver, and full of elvish beauty. Sam hadn’t seen stars in ever so long.

A rough shove to his back ripped him out of his thoughts, and he hit the stony ground with enough force to bloody his nose. A shadow fell over him, and his first thought was to grab the Ring.

“Give it back, you thief!”

Sam fumbled for his sword, heart thudding against his chest. He had hadn’t heard Gollum creep up on him at all. He squirmed around, thrusting blindly upward with his sword, but the creature leaped back with wiry slyness.

But then what he saw made him drop his sword with a cry. Soot had put a filthy sheen over pale beauty, but there was no hiding the blue eyes, wild now with lust and insatiable need. “Give…it…back.” His Frodo’s clothes were torn nearly to shreds, and he was so thin, so dreadfully thin, and he shook all over.

“Mr. Frodo?” Still clutching the Ring at his breast, tears spewed from Sam’s eyes. Could it really be? Or was it a cruel vision put out by the Enemy? He blinked and wiped his eyes. No, it couldn’t be. Frodo had been dead, his chest still and lifeless, and this creature before him was a trick, something meant to trap and destroy him. Sam turned and scrambled away, determined to make it up the mountain. He had gone only a few steps when shockingly strong arms grabbed his neck and long fingers clutched at that burning brand on his chest. Teeth bit into Sam’s ear, sending agony down the side of his face. Sam wrenched around and slammed the figure to the ground. A sharp cry came from the creature, Frodo’s, not a dream or vision, and Sam could see that his Frodo lay shivering on the hard rocks, spitting out blood.

“Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, falling beside him. “I am sorry. It’s you, it’s really you. I didn’t believe—I thought you were dead, Mr. Frodo…” He babbled unintelligibly, all the while holding his dear Mr. Frodo’s head between his strong gardener’s hands. The whispers and dark chants ceased for a time and music filled his ears. Beyond all hope, he had his Frodo again. He was here before him, and alive.

“Sam…” Frodo whispered weakly, and for a moment, his eyes became peaceful and he lay helpless, like a babe. But just as suddenly, his eyes changed and his lips curled into a snarl. “Give it back. It is mine!”

“Wait…wait, Mr. Frodo.” Sam would gladly give it back. His Mr. Frodo had come back. Yes, he’d gladly give the Ring back, but – He kissed Frodo’s brow. Frodo was already so wretched and thin, so broken. If he gave it back, he’d surely do more harm. Sam had already taken it from him. He was much stronger than Frodo. He might as well finish it all up, after all, and let his Frodo rest for a bit. Otherwise they were both bound to die here, breathing in this foul air and waiting for the strength to continue.

“You’re nothing but a thief,” Frodo spat out, snatching at Sam’s neck. “Give it back to me.”

“Now wait just a moment,” Sam said, moving just out of reach. “I’ll give it back to you. I kept it safe, is all. I thought you were dead. I had to see it through, just like I promised.” Tears filled his eyes again as he looked down on Frodo’s thin and determined face, chiseled by agony and hardship and too much sun and foul air. His eyes were steely and glazed, but they flickered, just a moment, and Sam saw the Mr. Frodo from Bag End, kindly and gentle and brimming with adventure.

But then Frodo’s eyes turned the Ring, and once again he panted, waiting, shaking and weakened, no eyes for anything but that which he craved.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked. “Oh, your poor head’s bleeding. How’s that for clumsy, knocking you down like that? But here I thought it was…I thought it was him, that Stinker. Did you follow me all the way here?”

“Give me the Ring, Sam.” Frodo’s voice was low and flat. His eyes glowed, and the Frodo of Bag End was once again lost. “Did you think you could get away with taking it from me? Did you think I would not follow?”

Sam clutched the Ring to his chest, and he could very clearly see himself handing it to Frodo, placing it in Frodo’s trembling hand, watching his face relax and shudder with need at last fulfilled. He could see it all, but he simply could not move. His hand stayed pressed to his chest. He should turn away from him, run up that mountain, and finish it off. Frodo had already gone through so much and here beyond all hope he was alive, and Sam couldn’t risk losing him again.

“Give it to me at once.” Frodo snatched at Sam’s neck, where the chain burned his skin. Sam leaned away, but Frodo was too quick, and his fingers snagged the chain and ripped it from Sam’s neck. Sam felt like he had once when old Doc Hollybrush had extracted a tooth from the back of his aching mouth – pain as it had been ripped from him, followed by gushing emptiness.

Frodo panted with relief, clasping the golden Ring in his hands, staring down at it with greedy, ecstatic eyes.

 

***

 

“I am glad you are with me here,” said Frodo. “Here at the end of all things, Sam.”

His master was alive and the Ring was destroyed, and now they lay on a boulder surrounded by fire and the end of the world. Frodo was not a vision brought on by foul craft of the Ring. He had not shriveled and faded like a mirage when the Ring had fallen with Gollum into the flames.

“I’m glad you’re here with me, too,” Sam said, cradling Frodo’s bloody hand in his, wishing that it had been him instead. Frodo had already endured too much.

That wretched light in Frodo’s eyes had faded, and there was no sign of defeat or of insatiable desire. His eyes were serene, peaceful, although a bit sad and pain-filled, for they truly had come to the end of all things here on the side of the mountain, and there was little hope that they would make it home.

Sam tried not to think about home -- of Rosie Cotton with ribbons in her hair or of hobbit children frolicking after Gandalf’s fireworks. All these had happened in another age, and for them, it could now go on into another age, under a different sun, but Sam and Frodo would not be around to see it. A savage grief tore at Sam’s throat. Clutching Frodo’s hand, he stared up at the billowing smoke that filled the sky and he wept openly. The Shire and all of Middle-earth for that matter had been saved, but not for them. Frodo leaned against him, silent, while tears oozed from his eyes.

As the fiery, tumbling world faded, a distant flapping of wings came to Sam’s ears. He longed for the strength to say something to Frodo about how it reminded him of one of Mr. Bilbo’s tales, that one about Gandalf’s eagles plucking them from burning trees surrounded by goblins, and how wouldn’t this be a fine tale if anyone ever came to hear of it. Instead Sam looked upward one last time, and his eyes might have deceived him, but it seemed that the billowing smoke had cleared just enough for him to see the faint silvery outline of a fading star, far too fair for the cruel land upon which it looked. But no, Sam thought. That was for a different tale in a different age, of which he and Frodo were no longer a part.

 

END


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